The killing game.

My face emerged from the water, breathless, and I squinted at the summer moon.

eeeee- zzzzzzz-pssszzzzzz-eeee

Blue light spilled over all the trees surrounding the pool, and my dad stood with his hands on his hips and his chest pushed out, self satisfied in the glow.

“Hear that, Gel? That’s the sound of mosquitoes getting zapped. I think that machine there will finally take care of all these bugs.”

I smiled and dove under the surface again, avoiding a kamikaze horsefly.

That summer, and all the summers I can remember of my childhood, clouds of mosquitoes swarmed through every play date, every cook out, every diving contest, every back yard race, every breath. My sister and I, pox-speckled by the Fourth of July, grew up falling asleep to the unique symphony of Wisconsin crickets and our own relentless skin-scratching.

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I frequently write about the struggle to find the bright side of life and motherhood, looking out for unexpected treasures, and committing random acts of photography in my adopted hometown of NYC.
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